It's Not a Dream (It's a Nightmare)
by mangachick1
Summary: Conner's had this dream a thousand times over. Except it's not going how it usually does, why doesn't this one end? And why does this one hurt?


_A/N:_

 _I'm in need of some Conner fics and I haven't found a lot I like so I decided to create this angst fest. I'm sorry in advance. oh and duh Kara's in here, i have headcanons that need to be fulfilled._

* * *

He'd had this dream. It was almost pleasant in its familiarity. This was where he flew across the skyline. This was where he dodged crimson lasers. And right there, was where he'd crash into Superman.

Through bricks and windows, and buildings and towers, until they smashed to a halt and Conner removed his clasp over the pulverized superhero. Until, Conner defeated the menace Superman and the world rejoiced.

Except, the dream had diverged.

Conner couldn't fly, he could barely stay airborne long enough to land a punch. He couldn't hold onto Superman because Superman could break his grip, he wasn't as strong as Superman. He was a faulty copy that somehow hadn't had clone degeneration yet.

And, somehow, the dream had compensated for that slight. It never had earlier, which was why Conner didn't really understand.

He didn't really understand why Superman floated above him, and he didn't understand why there was a shimmering globe behind him and gun in his hand. He didn't understand why the gun was at his head and his eyes were on the red S that filled his every moment.

"The dream's getting weirder," Conner grunted. And even that sounded weird, like he heard it in his ears and not his bones.

Superman glided down, only slightly like he was standing, so Conner looked up to him. Just like he always had but the expression didn't fit. Superman looked almost concerned, maybe suspicious and uncertain of his footing.

This was Superman. Superman always knew what was right.

"This isn't a dream Super Boy," Superman said. He had a deep voice, maybe soft, or was it scared. "This is real life, you're really standing here," Superman uttered, like he was an idiot.

He wasn't programmed to be an idiot.

Conner felt the cool top of metal on his temple and eyed it like it wasn't attached to his hand. It made his breath shake in his chest and his orbs water, "I don't know why I'm standing here," he admitted.

Superman could tell him. Superman had to know, he was everything Conner had to be and had to defeat – he was everything.

"I don't know either, Super Boy," Superman revealed gently.

Conner pointed the gun at Superman and growled, "You're lying." Of course Superman knew he just didn't want to help Conner again, wasn't it? "Don't lie to me," he yelled.

His muscles shook, overstrained but Conner didn't understand why. Sweat dribbled down his neck and his heart thundered inside his chest. He wasn't feeling too good, would Canary be coming? He needed help.

"Put the gun down, Conner," Superman insisted. His palms were raised; a universal sign of surrender and Conner didn't get it. "And I'll help in whatever way I can," Superman said.

Didn't Conner say that inside his head? Oh, right this was a dream.

And Conner knew how his dreams ended with Superman. His programming always kicked in and Conner would awaken after in cold shock, wiping the remains of his nightmare and wandered the forest surrounding the Cave with Wolf.

He really wanted that walk now.

Conner pulled the trigger, and Superman was right there. It skimmed his side and Conner scowled, that wasn't how it usually went. Superman never really fought back after he gave the killing shot, why was he now?

Superman knocked the gun down, staggering onto the rooftop and clamping on Conner's elbows. Maybe he had to fight this one, "Don't move!" Superman yelled. He didn't look good, the kryptonite bullet festering through his side.

"You can't tell me what to do," Conner growled.

It wasn't hard to break the hold, maybe kryptonite really was bad. Conner felt it, like an itch in his brain and drag on his muscle, but it didn't really hurt. Maybe that's another way that he and Superman didn't measure, there was a list now.

He grabbed the gun, brandishing it at Superman. He was staggering, pressing his hands to the bleeding wound, sweat dripped down his forehead and his blue eyes, the same ones that Conner had gotten, burned into his skin.

"This isn't a dream, Super Boy," he repeated.

Conner didn't understand the tactic. Of course it was a dream. He didn't remember how he got here, he didn't know where he got the gun and it felt like a dream.

Conner shook his head, "No," he growled. "I'm back in my pod and they're giving me a scenario. Don't try and trick me!" The gun shook in his hand, and Superman reached out a hand, "No!"

It was a difficult scenario; would he carry on defeating Superman if Superman actually maybe wanted him? Conner wanted to wake up, he really wanted to wake up now.

And there was only one way to do that.

He released the magazine at Superman. He dodged most of them but he hit him, right in the shoulder and in the gut. There, he'd die from that, right? Conner could wake up now, where was Wolf? He sometimes woke him up.

Superman tumbled onto his knees, crawling that ever bit more forward. Conner didn't want to see him actually die; he always woke up after he'd done the deed. He'd completed the scenario so…Superman wouldn't die yet.

"Super Boy," Superman hissed.

And Conner couldn't hear that right now. He needed to awaken, and he was going to tell Canary all about the dream this time because it was hard to breathe. "Stop!" he snarled and launched at the thick bulk.

Superman grunted and Conner punched him across the square jaw. Their jaws weren't exactly the same, Conner's was smaller, a bit rounder and why did his knuckles hurt if this was a dream? "I'm dreaming," he muttered, over and over as Superman's jaw cracked.

He thought he heard people scream. But people didn't scream at him for saving them from Superman. His red cape blanketed the view from their sides as wind whipped at them, and Superman bucked, slamming a fist into Conner's stomach to send him high ward.

Superman tried to stabilize and knock into him but Conner descended quicker, plowing into Superman's broad chest all over again. He was fighting, why was he fighting so hard? All the little sounds they'd never programmed into him were there.

He heard Superman's heart thump and shudder, the grabble of hands to switch their positions as Superman drove his fist into Conner's nose, the whip of wind and Superman's shout, "Wake up Conner! This isn't a dream!"

And Conner stopped.

It had to be a dream. He wasn't really here.

People screamed. And Superman found him. He looked scared, strained and sad, unbelievably sad, and Conner just wanted to apologize but his mouth wouldn't open.

"They're going to crash!" he heard someone scream.

His eyes widened and Superman grabbed him, different than earlier, rounder and constricting, and Superman twisted. He didn't understand and Conner gripped Superman's elbow as the wind flipped upwards and bones shattered.

Conner trembled.

It was all wrong, he hadn't woken up and silence stole everything. Dust surrounded him and it was hard to breathe and his ribs had actually broken.

"Conner," Superman whispered.

And he stared at the pulverized body beneath him and the world didn't rejoice.

Superman smiled a little tilt of sadness softening his features and his hand caressed Conner's neck and cheek. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, like a dark secret that needed the light.

It was raining on Superman's cheeks and the smile wobbled, his thumb brushing a stray tear from Conner's eye. "No," he trembled, this wasn't right. It wasn't…Superman's hand fell as the last of the dust cleared, and Conner realized, he realized.

He couldn't breathe, he had to leave Superman, he couldn't – he was going to kill him. "You've already killed him," a voice in the crowd preened.

His head snapped up, the crowd screamed and stared, terrified guns pointed and a loud voice boomed at him to step away from Superman with his hands in the air. Conner couldn't do that, Luther was there, he – Conner had heard him.

A dark shadow fell over him and Super Girl touched down, her arms shaking and eyes bright and wide. "I tried to get him to include you," she whispered, disbelief and shock resonated.

"Step back, Super Girl," Batman bent at Superman's side.

It was broad daylight, a bright clear day and Batman knelt in the shadow cast by the Bio Ship and took out tweezers, poking into Superman's gut. Batman didn't do that, not in sunlight.

"Conner," Batman ordered, "Get off him."

He was still on top of him. Superman's chest didn't move. His thighs didn't break from the weight. He hadn't – Conner hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed anything.

Kara might have yelled before Conner's chest imploded, and Batman didn't budge except lower down to inspect the wounds. She pulverized him, again and again, while he hung there.

She'd never been that furious. Her tears stamped behind the rage charging each punch and attack and snarl. Conner didn't actually kill Superman. That's what he'd been programmed to do. Allegedly, wouldn't it feel like an accomplishment of destiny, or fate? Conner couldn't feel.

Kara switched all feeling to the physical, and it suckered all the room for recollection.

A bright spark of lightening crackled from a few ominous rain clouds that faded away just as quickly as they appeared. Kara held him suspended by a fist in his bloodied shirt, and he turned his head to look after she tilted her head to hear.

Thunder hit down again, stronger and violent, twinkling through the air to spit in his ear. And Kara sucked in air and dropped him, flying off to the storm cloud as the ground rushed to greet him.

He hit a rooftop at an angle, toppling onto an antenna and collapsing onto a barren pavement, shards of debris his company. Conner puffed out rasping breaths and crimson blood greeted him.

He almost laughed; he'd ended up where Cadmus wanted him. And nothing could have stopped that. Conner struggled to stand. Then again, what was the point of standing after you've completed what you've been programmed to do?

Someone laughed, and it was him again. He cast a shadow over Conner in an immaculate suit and tie, his bald head reflecting the spare rays of sunlight while the cloud blotted it out, "Well done, Son."

Conner wasn't his Son.

"You made me kill him," Conner whimpered. He didn't want to sound weak. He didn't want to bleed out. But he hadn't wanted to kill Superman.

Luther chuckled again; like it was his greatest fortune and he only had to gloat over it. He patted Conner's swollen cheek, "Oh no. This was all you." That was a lie.

"It wasn't – you, programmed me," Conner grunted. He had to get free. He couldn't let Luther win. Luther looked down at him.

He shook Conner's blood clutching to his hand, "Perhaps. But you've fought your programming before, haven't you? For yourself and for your own freedom, but you didn't do that now." Luther smiled, "You really are my son."

Conner shook his head and his skull punished him, "I'm not," he snarled.

"Oh, I think you are," Luther corrected. He stepped aside as a fancy black sedan rolled over, "I think you wanted this almost as much as I did. In fact," Luther pointed out, "You weren't actually meant to succeed."

He chuckled as he stepped inside the vehicle, "So really. You did want to kill him more than I programmed you to. Color me proud," he drawled with a tilt of humor. And his vehicle spurred forward for Luther to return to his life.

He'd lied. Luther had to have lied. And this was a horrible, horrible day because it wasn't a dream. Not anymore.

Conner suffocated the back pedal smog, and yeah, maybe he didn't need to degenerate. He was already a failed clone. He could choke, yeah maybe Superman would – "Conner!"

He looked different. Was it because of death? He didn't think Superman would greet him. Superman might kill him. That little ray of sunshine that had illuminated Luther found Superman, reflecting in the clear blue orbs they shared and caressed the side of his face.

Superman had done that to him. Just before he died, "I'm sorry," he whimpered.

His face got closer, hiding the dark shadow that descended from the sky. He was bruised and bloodied, and vulnerable in all the defiant places. Superman kept his bloodied fingers on Conner's swollen cheek but it was gentle.

Conner didn't understand.

Tears bled in Superman's orbs, "It's going to be alright," he insisted. And people were moving, noise cluttered back into his ears and it hurt.

Conner wanted to believe him. He really did, "You promise?" he cried at a stabbing in his chest. He didn't want another lie.

"I promise," Superman whispered. And he descended on Conner like a bright duvet, swallowing up the anguish and carrying Conner into slumber.


End file.
